


A Collar of Grass

by Sineala



Category: The Eagle | Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - BDSM, Collars, Community: kink_bingo, Directedverse, Other, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-25
Updated: 2011-08-25
Packaged: 2017-10-23 01:42:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/244851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sineala/pseuds/Sineala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marcus weaves, dreams, and wants things he can never have.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Collar of Grass

**Author's Note:**

> Another story in Carmarthen's Directedverse. Set approximately twelve years after [On the Narrow Edge](http://archiveofourown.org/works/211871), though you don't need to read that to read this. Also written for Kink Bingo; the square is "collars."

They say that once, sufferers could fight.

Marcus knows this, of course, but the thought seems to be entering his head lately with unusual frequency. Perhaps it is only that he is so lonely, just posted here at Habitancum. He has never made friends easily, and he knows the officers hate him on account of who his father was, what he did. At least they do not know what Marcus does. Did. Used to do. Would like to do again.

He wants to belong to someone. He used to hope the army was enough, but he knows now that he is wrong. In Rome everyone belongs to someone, free or slave, victor or sufferer, all twisted up in patronage and ownership from the empress on down. But it is not right, never right, all dressed up and prettied up and the truth of it hidden like an actor behind his mask. It is nothing like the pure simplicity of kneeling because you wish it.

He wants to be collared.

He is a soldier.

This is simple too: he cannot be both.

Oh, he has heard the rumors about the whores in the garrison town. There is talk -- because this is the army, and there is always talk -- that for enough money they will bind you if you wish it. And the finest of them, cultured and elegant like Greek courtesans, will collar you for even more money. Not a true collar, of course, for you are hardly marrying them. But they will pretend to love you, to treat you as a victor would.

He will never go to one, of course, no matter how much he wants it. He remembers too well the man they put to death in II Traiana. Someone always knows.

Marcus wonders how the leather would feel at his throat. Late at night, in the dark of the barracks, he used to trace his fingers across his neck and ponder it. But he only did that a few times; one of his messmates, a hard-faced Gaulish woman, had looked at him with queer eyes as though she had seen him, had known his thoughts. He has not done it in years. Cypriana broke him of the habit, helped him survive, and so he has. He has pushed himself down, pushed himself back, hidden everything, but he is alive. He is alive, and he is a soldier, and so he will never be collared.

In the song, Juno wove a grass-collar, for Dido to give to Aeneas, or so she said. Marcus' tutors were often silent on this part, and the song itself never says what became of the collar next. It does not say who wore it, or if the Phoenician queen collared the Trojan himself at their secret wedding. The song does not describe the shadows on the cave wall as Aeneas sank to his knees in front of the queen. It does not tell of him at her feet, in her court, proud and collared before all. No, these things are for Marcus to picture.

Marcus imagines the grass-collar is a grand honor, like the grass-crowns of generals, fitting for a suffering warrior, if ever there could be such a thing.

The grass-collar is sung of once more only, as it is heaped on Dido's funeral pyre. Perhaps we are meant to think that no one ever wore it. Perhaps we are meant to think even that Aeneas was the victor of the two, was always the victor. But the song does not say, and in that unsaid space Marcus stores all his hopes.

A sufferer can fight.

Even the gods kneel for each other, he thinks, and then is terrified at the audacity of his own thoughts.

That night he dreams of kneeling. The dreams come often to him, more often now than they have in years. Sometimes he is a raw recruit again, kneeling at Cypriana's feet. Sometimes it is another of his commanders.

In the dreams, he is always happy. They are not even all lustful dreams, and Marcus is not sure if that makes them better or worse, to know that it is a thing he wants with more than his basest passions.

Tonight it is a stranger to him, but as strangers are in dreams, a man he feels he must surely know somehow. He does not look up, does not see the man's face, but thin, bony hands are held out before him, the man's skin painted like a Briton. The man murmurs something low that he can almost, almost understand, and Marcus feels a heavy, wonderful weight settle at his neck. Yes. He belongs. Finally, he is understood, there is an end to the lying, to the hiding. He is known.

And he smiles, and he smiles, and he smiles.

And he looks up--

And he is staring at the ceiling of his room in the fort. A dream. Only a dream.

The next day, a free day, he goes out to the fields and picks a few long blades of grass. The weaving is tricky, but after a while he has a thin braid, long enough to fit easily around his neck and be tied.

Marcus holds it up and dares not bring it close. This is not for him, not yet, not ever.

At least, he thinks as he clears the ground, the other soldiers will only think he was sacrificing to Mithras, if they see anything. The unconquered sun cannot aid him now. He is not a sufferer's god.

The grass catches the flame quickly, and Marcus watches until it all burns away.


End file.
